


(Im)perfect

by katybar



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: And scotch, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, had to research violins a bit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-12
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2019-03-04 01:43:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13353870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katybar/pseuds/katybar
Summary: John asks a question, and gets an answer he didn't expect.





	(Im)perfect

**Author's Note:**

> I think a lot of us (myself certainly included!) love to write Sherlock as captivating, amazing, and brilliant in anything he puts his mind to. I was just really needing a story where he is not perfect, and that's alright.

“What was that now?” John’s sounds only half-alert.

Sherlock glances round from his violin.  John is sat on the couch, sprawling a bit, the toes of his stockinged feet curling into each other, nursing a scotch.  The sight of the golden liquid sloshing a bit is inexplicably erotic.

“Chopin Nocturne in A major,” Sherlock murmurs. He’s already thinking of John’s curling toes on his soft bedsheets.

“Why did you play it in B flat, then?” John’s voice has picked up definintion, just the hint of an edge. 

Sherlock goggles at him.

In the past, John has confused Beethoven and Bach (“well, they’re both Germans and their names begin with B, don’t they?”), has listened without comment while Sherlock exchanges vibrato for staccato, and has shown a preference for syrupy 80s love ballads.  It is inconceivable that John knows the difference between A and B flat or any other note of the scale.

Besides… Sherlock holds up his violin, points to the A string.

“That string,” he says, and plucks it.  “That’s A.”   If he keeps to words of a single syllable, maybe John will let this go. 

“No, it’s not,” John counters.  Not mulishly, exactly.  Patiently?  Condescendingly?

Sherlock transfers the bow to his left hand, holds both instrument and bow carefully aloft while he roots through his case, and fishes out a set of Evah Pirazzi strings, one of several he keeps on hand, as their high tension requires frequent changing.  Or because he swaps them out for the more challenging Tzigane when he gets bored.  

He points to the package.  John has a superstitious respect for the printed word, after all.  Or letter, as the case may be.  “A,” he announces.

John shrugs.  “Must be doing it wrong, then.”

Sherlock drops the strings back into the case where they bounce off the Tzigane’s.  He shimmies one hand along the bow and unscrews it to release the tension.  He houses the bow, removes the chin-rest from the violin, wipes away stray rosin, and sets the violin lovingly in the case.  John is still waiting for an answer.

“You can hear the difference between an A and a B flat?” Sherlock asks finally.

“Or a B sharp,” John shrugs again.

“There is no B sharp,” Sherlock retorts.

“Should be though. Why not?  What do you call half a step up from B then?” John appears to be serious.

“C,” Sherlock grates out.

“Semantics,” John counters.

In a flurry, the violin is back at Sherlock’s chin, the edge sharp on his throat, but this is hardly going to last long. “What would you call this, then?” He bows out a series of atonal notes.

“C A E-flat F-sharp B…” John is staring to the right just above Sherlock’s head, reciting notes as fast as Sherlock is playing them and it’s Sherlock who has to stop for breath.  He closes his eyes, does a few quick calculations, opens his eyes again, and frowns at John.

John gazes back at him.

“You have perfect pitch,” Sherlock says slowly.

“And you don’t,” John answers, looking just as surprised.

“Of course I don’t,” Sherlock spits.  “One in ten thousand people have perfect pitch.  It’s a, a, genetic anomaly, not some kind of virtue.” The last words drips with disdain.

“Hey,” John smiles for the first time in this entirely aggravating discussion, “Hey, it’s alright.  I won’t think less of you,” the joke is wan, but the smile is warm.

Sherlock grits his teeth and goes through the entire ritual of arranging violin in case again.  He starts when he feels John’s hand warm between his shoulder blades.

“It’s not all genetics though,” John’s voice is muffled by its proximity to Sherlock’s right scapula.  The words puff a bit of humidity into the crisp white of Sherlock’s dress shirt. “I mean, there’s environment, and exposure, and interest in music.  I guess I just assumed you learned the violin before you could ride a bike, something like that.”

“Before?” Sherlock is not mollified by John’s puffy breath, he really isn’t.

“Instead?” asks John.  He sounds amused and tolerant.

“I did.” John really doesn’t need to know this about Sherlock.

“And?” John asks.

“I taught myself,” Sherlock non-elaborates.  It has nothing to do with John’s warmth nearly pressing against his back.

“Okaaayy…” John is transparent, he really is.

“I used the piano in the study,” Sherlock admits.  He leans back into John’s presence.  He’s explained, surely he deserves this.

There’s just puzzled silence and a bit of hmmm’ing from behind him.

Damn.

Sherlock hasn’t actually told this story to anyone. This story of his miniature self.  Four years old? No, perhaps three. Over years, through a series of increasing perceptive teachers, he has feigned disinterest.  Not one of them ever questioned it.  After all, it was true, what he said, one in ten thousand people have perfect pitch and often it came down to genetic anomaly, to the John Watson’s of the world, who embarrass themselves blowing into instruments they are clearly unsuited for, wasted on people who would rather watch mindless telly or give themselves carpal tunnel syndrome playing computer games than create beauty, order, or harmony in the world.

“Sherlock?” John pushes him gently around but knows better than to force eye contact.

“My parents had the piano tuned three times a year, but no one ever played it,” Sherlock lurches.  “I’ve heard that Mummy played once, but if so, it was long before me. But they still had it tuned.  It was a man from the village, had been a tuner for 50 years, he liked to say.  ‘Crusty,’ I think you would call him,” Sherlock continues, wrinkling his nose.  “You would have liked him.”

“You liked him too, I think,” John replies.

Sherlock hums, unwilling to put agreement into words.  “Yes, well, it turns out he’d gone a bit deaf.  Not too much.  Half a tone, to be exact.”

“B flat,” John says, like it’s an answer.

“B flat,” Sherlock agrees.

“So what’s it like, then?” asks John.  “You have perfect pitch but it’s, what, a half tone off?”

“Imperfect pitch,” Sherlock grouses, and John barks out a surprised laugh, and Sherlock glowers at him.

“It’s not amusing,” he pronounces. When John just cocks his head, Sherlock continues, “It’s a tremendous nuisance, actually.  I hear the wrong note, actually hear the name.  If it’s double-stops, I hear both at once. Fiddling is unbearable.  Even concert music is out of the question.”

“Can’t you just ignore it?” John asks.

“Can’t you just ignore the gps lady telling you where to turn?” Sherlock snipes back, and he knows he has John, because that’s one of John’s favorite complaints, every time they venture out of London in a automobile, and even more so inside London.

John grimaces.  “No, I suppose not…” he ventures.  “So that’s why you always play alone? And why you tune your violin a half-tone off?”

“Essentially.  And yes, tuning my violin that way is a way, the only way, I’ve ever found to silence that voice.”

“Hmm, bet I could silence it for you.” John winks lecherously, painfully obvious, transparently cringeworthy.

“Not unless you blew me in the concert hall, orchestra seats,” Sherlock says crisply.  The blush that explodes onto John’s face is entirely satisfying.  There’s a reason Sherlock saves shocking words for times when he intends to shock.  

“Only if you ask nicely,” John recovers.

Well, that’s an idea, thinks Sherlock. He’ll take it under consideration.

**Author's Note:**

> I stole Sherlock's problem from a music theory teacher I once had -- the same thing happened to him, except it was his teacher's piano and she was so proud of her student-prodigy that she tried to show him off...


End file.
